


(Fic Amnesty) The Trials of Baker St

by Amalia Kensington (amaliak01)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, non-canon compliant post-TRF, post-TRF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:24:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3470897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaliak01/pseuds/Amalia%20Kensington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of the world's only consulting detective, the others in his circle are called to justice. (Fic Amnesty: Incomplete work that will not be completed)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Claimant

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this during the last hiatus but never got around to finishing it, and at this point, I don't even remember where it was going. But I wanted to post what I did have with it.   
> The general idea came to me while realizing that in the real world, Mycroft can't protect everyone and the law and public opinion would still bring at least into question those closest to Sherlock.

“Case closed then.”

Sergeant Sally Donovan looked up from her paperwork at the sound of the slap of a newspaper being slapped down before her. She briefly glanced at DI Greg Lestrade as he stood in the doorway to her office, hands on his hips. The look on his face could only be described as furious.

She looked at the newspaper.  The afternoon special edition of the Times had the now-iconic photo of Sherlock Holmes slapped across the front and “Disgraced Detective Dead” in large type. They’d all heard the news by now, of course, but somehow the finality of seeing it in print didn’t bring the relief she’d been expecting.

“Nothing more to say, is there?”

Sally did her best not to flinch at the biting tone of the inspector’s voice. She leaned forward as her eyes skimmed the front page article.

“I’m sorry I was right,” she said quietly. “Honestly didn’t think he’d die.” She swallowed. “But now at least no one else will either.”

She meant it. Sherlock Holmes deserved to die, after everything he’d done to all those people, all the awful things they’d all been put through. There was finally some justice in the world.

“Let it go, will ya? There wasn’t any proof at all that he was responsible for anything,” Lestrade said, his anger growing with every word. It should have been enough to shut her up.

But it didn’t.

“There was proof,” she argued, standing up, her own anger and indignation rising. “You just didn’t want to see it, brushed it over and looked the other way and people suffered! The man was a menace and a git, and you kept calling him to come on down and gloat over his handiwork. No one else could have done all those things, no one else would have been clever enough! He had you wrapped around his finger, even now, when it’s all coming out!”

“You’re out of line, Sergeant.” Lestrade’s voice was dangerously low. He glared at her for a moment before turning on his heel.

But she wasn’t finished. “And you know what, he’s not the only one’s got to pay for this.”

Lestrade whirled around to face her again, and she walked over to meet his anger full on. She was right and she wasn’t going to hold back anymore. She was tired of pretending that everyone didn’t bend over backwards and broke all the rules for that unworthy bastard. “The families of the people who died deserve justice. And Sherlock Holmes might have been clever enough to pull it off, but he would have needed help, wouldn’t he?” She took a step closer. “And who was there, always right by his side, every time?”

If Sally hadn’t known better, she would have sworn Lestrade had considered trying to fire her.

*******

_“In a surprising turn of events, Doctor John Watson, the blogger who made the late Sherlock Holmes an Internet sensation, was seen taken by Scotland Yard from the Baker St home that he shared with the late consulting detective. This raises questions in the debate over Sherlock Holmes’ suicide following a press campaign aimed to discredit him. While the public continues to debate about whether or not Holmes’ exploits were proof of true genius or genius turned evil, the authorities have shown that they are considering every possibility._

_No comment from New Scotland Yard as to whether or not the doctor will be formally charged with any crime.”_

*****

 


	2. Barrister

Formally, the charge was ‘suspected accessory’.

 

The evidence they had (as far as he could tell), was largely circumstantial, but it was not looking good. When Lestrade hadn’t shown his face around the interrogation room nor later in the detention cell they had him in, John began to suspect it was a bit worse than he’d originally believed. So now, nearly two days after his arrest, John was doing his best to keep calm and not fall apart.

 

The heavy lead door groaned open.

 

“Watson,” the gruff police officer called out. “Bail’s been posted.”

 

Anthea waited patiently beside him while he collected his things, her mobile phone safely tucked away for once. He wasn’t surprised, but refrained from comment as he climbed into the black car that was waiting for them around the back (reporters and cameras had been waiting around front).

 

“I’d like to go home,” John eventually said as they drove out of London.

 

“I’m sorry, John,” was Anthea’s only reply.

 

By the time they stopped, John’s temper had reached the boiling point. He followed Anthea through the empty refinery to the large and empty second story where Mycroft was waiting for him, his back turned to John as he considered the landscape beyond through a broken window.

 

“Hello, John.”

 

Mycroft’s voice had always been soft and quiet, nearly comforting, and always eerily proper. It made John want to punch him in the face.

 

“Make this stop. Right now,” John ordered through gritted teeth. “This isn’t a joke, Mycroft.”

 

The other man remained in his place.

 

“Do you know what’s happening?” John burst out, his voice echoing loudly around the empty space. “Sherlock’s name is going to be dragged through the mud again and this time right along with everyone who ever helped him, who ever helped _you_!”

 

John took a step forward. “I will _NOT_ allow....” he checked himself, taking a couple of deep, steadying breaths. His voice came out quieter.  “I know you can fix this, Mycroft. **_Fix. It._** ”

 

Mycroft turned then, something akin to sorrow on his face. “I’m sorry, John. I cannot.”

 

“YES YOU CAN!” John exclaimed, turning around and walking briskly away before changing his mind and pivoting to march back towards the other man. “Sherlock is _dead_ because of you, because you wouldn’t keep Moriarty locked up! Because you _wouldn’t_ tell the world who Moriarty really was when he was slandering your brother’s name, because you _sold your brother out_ to a MANIAC!”

 

John’s hands balled into fists. “You owe him this, Mycroft. He’s dead, and you owe him not to let his friends go down too.”

 

Mycroft was silent then, his clear eyes focusing on John in a way that was painfully familiar. He seemed to be coming to a decision.

 

“You are a good man, John Watson. But I cannot stop this now that it’s started,” Mycroft began, holding up his hand for John to hear him out. “I can, however, make it a bit easier for you. I can assure you that you will have the best possible representation and that the trial will be fair and unbiased. You are innocent of crimes, Doctor Watson, and I can ensure that it remains so, even to the eyes of the public. The evidence will speak for itself and so the prosecution won’t have a leg to stand on. As for the others, no real harm will come to them.”

 

John’s anger hadn’t died down in the slightest. “That’s not good enough.”

 

“John, this is what I can do,” Mycroft replied. He paused. “For Sherlock.”

 

John wanted to say no, to tell Mycroft to sod off, but he knew he couldn’t. He would need all the help he could get, and really Mycroft was the best person for it.

 

“Fine,” John said quietly. “Fine.”

 

“We’ll be in touch.”

  
*****


	3. Accomplice

Molly walked through the front door of her flat, dropping her keys into the bowl on the stand next to the coat rack. Usually Toby was ready to come up and greet her by now, and after a day like today she could really use some affection.

 

“Toby,” she called out as she shrugged out of her jacket and hung it up on the coat rack behind the door. She was so tired. “Toby,” she called out again into the darkened flat. When she didn’t hear the telltale bell of his collar, she sighed and walked down the narrow hallway, flicking on the light of the living room.

 

Her eyes adjusted to the light quickly as her eyes cast around for Toby. Probably having a nap in the bedroom, she thought with a shrug. Looking around her small flat, she felt sad (and more than a little angry, if she was being honest) that would have all remained the same when her life since this morning had been completely flipped.

 

Deciding to lure Toby out with the prospect of dinner, she moved into the darkened kitchen, not bothering with the light, calling out for him again as she reached for the tin of wet food. The light twinkle of the bell inside the kitchen made her smile, reminding her that even after everything, she wasn’t alone.

 

“Have you been in here this whole time, fella?” Molly teased as she scooped the food into the kitty dish.

 

“Yes, and you really should be more observant.”

 

Molly stifled a shriek at the deep baritone response and fumbled for the kitchen light, gripping the only thing she’d managed to grab as a weapon.

 

And there was Sherlock Holmes, blinking at the sudden harsh light of the kitchen as he sat at her breakfast table, arms folded across his chest. Her heart was beating at an alarming rate and she told herself it was only because he’d frightened her.

 

Toby was crouched on the top ledge of her china cabinet, watching the whole situation intently.

 

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?” Molly managed to ask, pointing her weapon at him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her weapon of choice: a tin opener. With a flush, she set it on the counter. “How long have you been in here? Are you alright?”

 

“Fine as you can see, and I haven’t been here long. Tell me what’s happening,” he said, to the point as ever.

 

Molly dropped into the chair opposite him, resting her head in her hands as she tried to calm herself down.

 

Of course, he knew. That’s why he was here.

 

“It’s all falling apart,” she said, more to herself than him.  
  


“The facts, Molly, please.”

 

She took in his appearance. She had recognized his voice immediately, of course, but had he not spoken a word, she might not have recognized him right away and walked right by him on the street. His hair was cropped short, a dark ginger color. He was wearing a dark grey hoodie with a leather jacket over it, and jeans as far as she could tell. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, scruff on his jaw and upper lip so uncharacteristic and just...sexy. He looked impossibly young.

 

What hadn’t changed at all were his piercing blue eyes and right at this moment they were glaring at her with impatience.

 

“John got arrested,” she began but he rolled his eyes at her in a way that told her he’d gathered that much, thank you. “I know that he’s out on bail after a rather quick presentation at Magistrates’ Court. But they’ve pulled everything: all the cases, everything you worked on, they’ve all been re-opened for further investigation, to see if they can find anything to hold you and John responsible. Or anyone else they think you were involved with, really.”

 

Sherlock had leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he brought his hands together. “Go on.”

 

“They’ve also brought some of us in,” Molly went on, her voice quivering a bit. “For...questioning. But that’s not the worst part. DI Lestrade’s been suspended indefinitely from Scotland Yard, hopefully only until this is all sorted.”

 

“Internal affairs investigation,” Sherlock cut in, his brows having furrowed together. “Lengthy and ugly and an utter waste of time.”

 

Molly decided to push on. “I’ve been suspended without pay from Bart’s, pending a private internal investigation.” She took a deep breath, recalling the day’s horrific events. “They don’t trust us, think we gave you too much.”

 

He turned his gaze on her once again, and she could feel him analysing her, deducing the severity of the situation by just how bit down her nails were or something. At least that’s what she would have done. “What exactly are they looking for?” he asked at length.   
  


Molly shook her head. “Dunno, really. But they took everything they thought you’d been involved in, questioned me about what I knew.”

 

She sighed and dropped her head in her hands again, fighting back the emotions of it all. Sherlock kept quiet for a moment.

 

“Molly, what about...” he trailed off, for once seemingly unsure how to proceed.

 

“They didn’t ask about that. Wasn’t ever a proper autopsy, remember? No one suspects me involved in that at all, thank God,” Molly supplied, referring to the day Sherlock Holmes was declared dead without question since everyone and their bloody mother seemed to claim to have seen his brain scatter on the pavement at Bart’s.

 

Sherlock stood up then, pacing the length of her small kitchen in just a few strides. “Where’s John now? Is he at Baker Street? Mrs. Hudson?”  
  


Molly shook her head. “I don’t know where John is. I heard they’d been in Baker Street for the investigation. John did stay here for a night or two just after he got out, but I’m not sure where he’s gone now. Mrs. Hudson is fine, they’re not bothering her at all.”

 

“Good for now,” Sherlock mumbled to himself. “But they’ll come calling, if there’s a bit of brains in the lot of them. Though that in itself might keep her safe.”

 

“There’s to be a trial, Sherlock. A public one,” Molly went on, look up at him. “We’ll all get dragged through the mud.”

 

That made Sherlock stop his pacing to look directly at her. “What? Why?”

 

He was genuinely confused. She nearly laughed. “Because, Sherlock. Think about it. John. Lestrade. Me. We’ve all done things to help you. Things we shouldn’t exactly have been doing. Things that in the long run, will at minimum cost us our jobs, not to mention our reputations when they’re brought to light. Even if the case is dismissed, no one will trust us again.” The reality of the situation as she was vocalizing it made her throat tighten up, and she had to clamp her hands together to keep herself in check. Toby had seemed to sense her distress and wove about her ankles anxiously.

 

Just then, she felt his hand on her shoulder and her gaze snapped up to his.

 

“I really am sorry, Molly,” he said quietly. And really, what else could he say?

 

Before she knew what she was doing, Molly had jumped up and wrapped her arms around him, her face buried in his chest and openly sobbed. The stress of the day, the accusing looks at the hospital (the whispers of “she was mad for him”), the very real possibility that everything she’d worked so hard for was potentially gone. The fact that _he_ was there, standing in her kitchen, safe and whole, smelling of rain and wind and offering her comfort. It was too much for her to hold herself together.

 

She could tell that Sherlock wasn’t sure how to proceed, and she briefly imagined his face was bewildered (a rare look, but she couldn’t see it). Eventually, his hands came to rest lightly on her back and he murmured words that she felt within his chest rumbling beneath her cheek rather than actually hearing.

 

Molly knew she needed to get a hold of herself before she became a complete snotty mess all over him. Extracting herself from his arms and ducking her head, she turned to the counter, grabbing some napkins and doing her best to clean herself up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. It’s just...”  
  


“It’s fine, Molly,” he cut her off, his tone not as harsh as it could have been. And it really, hadn’t she earned a little leniency from him? Hadn’t she held him the night he ‘died’? Hadn’t she run her fingers through his hair as he lay his head on her lap, wracked with emotion (because Sherlock Holmes did not sob)? Of course she had done, and without question: it’s what friends did.

 

“You can fix it, can’t you?” she found herself asking.

 

She turned to face him, knowing full well that she looked puffy and tired and a bit broken. He hadn’t moved from where she’d stepped away from him and his expression was unreadable.

 

“Sherlock,” she moved to stand close to him and looked directly up into his face. “You can fix this, can’t you?”

 

He didn’t reply.

 

******

 

 


	4. (Loose Ends)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of it, from here it all fall apart. Follows is just some dialogue of "interviews" which each of the accused.

Chapter 4 - Hearsay

Lestrade

Chapter 5 - Actus Reus

Sherlock

Chapter 6 - Mitigation

Trial coverage

 

“Please state your name and occupation, for the record.”

 

“John H. Watson. Medical doctor.”

 

“Thank you. Doctor Watson, why don’t we pick up from where we left off before?”

 

***

  
  


“Please state your full name for the record.”

 

“Mary Margaret Hooper.”

 

“And what is your position, Doctor Hooper?”

 

“I’m a pathologist.”

 

“Thank you. When did you start your employment in St. Bartholomew Hospital?”

 

“Four years ago, just after I finished my residency.”

 

“And how long ago did you meet Sherlock Holmes?”

 

*****

“You know how this goes, Greg. We’ll just play it by the book, yeah?”

 

“Just get on with it.”

 

“Name?”

 

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.”

 

****

“Name?”

 

“Mycroft Holmes.”

 

“Occupation, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“.....”

 

“This is an official inquiry Mr. Holmes. The quicker you answer these questions, the quicker we can put this to rest.”

 

“I am a servant of Her Majesty.”

 

“When did you apprehend James Moriarty?”

 

“Four months ago.”

 

“And how long was he in your custody?”

 

“Six weeks. It’s all in the logs, you are welcome to see them and then we can move on from this tiresome business.”  

 

* * *

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! There isn't going to be more of this. :(


End file.
